Straight Lines And Curve Balls
by Iantalia
Summary: Gibbs DiNozzo slash - with some humour, some angst, and a lot of destiny having a laugh.  Tony and Gibbs' inner thoughts have more in common than either of their owners realise. *COMPLETE!*
1. Chapter 1

Tony DiNozzo could pinpoint the exact moment he knew he was in trouble.

He was leaning on the bar, whisky in hand, absently looking out at the dance floor. He had finally managed to escape from Abby for five minutes by pleading a twinge in his bad knee and whirling her towards McGee.

It wasn't that dancing with Abby wasn't fun – just that he wasn't as young as he used to be. Every now and again it was worth taking some time out to slow his heart rate down and get his breath back.

McGee was not pleased. Every time he caught sight of Tony – whenever there was a lull in the whirling in fact - he was staring daggers at him.

Actually, McGee? Daggers were far too low tech. He needed a whole new expression. Staring _lasers_ at him. He should be a crispy burned piece of toast by now.

He let his attention slide away, idly scanning the guests: cataloguing bridesmaids (four in total: two children, one married, one worth a try) and trying to work out which ladies were both available and not colleagues when his eye caught and held. He didn't even realise he was staring until he heard the voice in his ear.

"That is a mighty fine _ass_, is it not?"

Hell yeah. Firm, round, delectable…

"Of course, if she catches you looking at it like that, she may well break your arm, hmmn?"

She?

And that was the point, right there. Right where Ducky's assumption that it was _Ziva_ he was gawking at made him realise that it wasn't.

It was much worse than that.

Much, _much_ worse.

It was Gibbs.

* * *

><p>Tony was too busy mentally staring at himself in horror to register another word of the conversation with the M.E. Luckily, Ducky being Ducky he could handle most of the talk on his own, leaving Tony merely to throw in the occasional grunt.<p>

As soon as Ducky had wandered on, no doubt in search of a more dedicated listener, he bolted outside, double checked no-one was following him, and then found a nice quiet, hidden bench where he could have a crisis in private.

He'd been sitting there blankly staring at a nearby tree for more than five minutes when a fly landing on his nose snapped him out of it. He gave himself a firm mental shake, and told himself to damn well get on with his crisis before someone came looking for him. And – _worse_ - found him.

He'd been staring at Gibbs' _ass_. _Gibbs'_ ass.

How the hell had that happened?

Well, probably because he'd been looking around, and he'd thought – that was a damn fine suit. And Gibbs' profile had been looking down at Ziva's and actually smiling at something she had said to him, and he'd thought – you should smile more often.

And he'd thought: you should wear suits like that more often. Accentuates broad shoulders, tapers down to neat waist, clings nicely onto –

- _Gibbs' ass_.

The man had a damn fine ass in that damn fine suit.

No, no, no, no, no. This crisis was not working. Focus here, Tony. The question at hand was how the hell had that happened, as in you're _straight_.

He knew he was straight. He had been absolutely, resolutely, arrow-like straight for his entire life. Had he been in any doubt, he was pretty certain he'd slept with enough women to sort out any confusion.

He was a highly trained federal investigator. He'd like to think he would have noticed if he'd woken up one day _not_ straight.

And he'd been working for Gibbs for many more years than should strictly have been possible. He'd never noticed anything in their professional working relationship that would have indicated a desire to check out Gibbs' ass.

To be fair, given the sheer quality of the ass in question, anybody trained to be observant would have checked it out at some point.

Scrub that thought. Not only did it not really hold together in the 'wake up and see sense' part of the equation, but the image of the entire ranks of NCIS- plus a fair few FBI- ogling Gibbs' rear view made him want to wash his brain out with bleach and lock his Boss in an unoccupied, windowless room in equal parts.

He wasn't entirely sure that the second part of that was on the list of things he should be thinking.

Well that was easy enough to deal with. Just don't think it. Think something else. Preferably something female and curvaceous.

This was a… a fleeting distraction, brought on by a particularly well cut suit. No more and no less.

Right, there we go. Tony, time to get yourself back in there before Abby comes looking, and make like the ladies man you are.

* * *

><p>He should have known it wouldn't be that simple. Oh, getting back inside went smoothly enough, and he flirted quite successfully with the girl behind the bar while he got a refill. He hadn't so much as looked to see where Gibbs was, and Sondra was very friendly, and he thought <em>what the hell<em>, and he said, "Make it a double."

And a quiet, deep, very familiar voice right behind his ear said:

"Make it two."

The man was close enough that he could feel the warm whisper of breath on his ear and neck, and he focused, very deliberately, on Sondra – on her waist, and her ass, and her… oh _yeah_. Straight, see? Men didn't have them. None of that soft, curvaceous responsiveness. Oh no. Just solid, unrelenting muscle. Firm, no-nonsense… heated, soft skin over strong, safe planes of…

Oh God.

It was no use. He could look at those all night…

…and to be honest, he _could_ look at those all night…

...but it wasn't going to change the fact that right now, every cell in his body was standing to attention for the man behind his right shoulder. He could feel the line of Gibbs' body, just by the prickling of his skin and the direction the blood was flowing in.

"You going to pay the lady, DiNozzo? Or try and keep her standing in your eyeline a bit longer?"

There was a touch of amusement in the voice, and a touch of impatience, and Tony didn't really pay much attention to either, because that voice was doing horrible, evil, _delicious_ things to his spine, and every time Gibbs spoke he stiffened from head to foot.

And yes, stiffened was maybe not the wisest choice of word, but it was _true_, damn it. He kept his back to Gibbs, and his front to the bar, and his eyes on Sondra, and wondered if a small prayer would be _entirely_ inappropriate, or if he'd get away with it.

Belatedly, he realised everyone was still waiting for him to pay for the drinks, and he pulled out his wallet, handed over the cash with an apologetic grin, and nearly jumped out of three layers of skin when Gibbs leant forward, one hand casually leaning on Tony's shoulder, and grabbed his glass.

"Abby's looking for a dance partner."

No way was he going anywhere near Abby right now. The woman had a sixth sense for things like this. She'd be in his head, rooting through his life and arranging a go-forward plan before he could say, 'But…'.

He needed a plan B. Quickly. Between Gibbs' hand burning a hole straight through his shoulder, the line of fire running clean down to his calves from where other body parts were intermittently touching, and the fact that Abby would take one look at him and _know,-_he needed an out. Now.

He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. She was still standing there, despite him having paid.

He smiled, the slow, lazy smile that very rarely failed to raise a reaction, and beckoned at her to come a little closer. She grinned back, leaned forward quite spectacularly, and offered him an ear.

"So, Sondra? You working all night? Or do they let you out early enough to… _party_?"


	2. Chapter 2

Jethro Gibbs could pinpoint the exact moment he knew he was in trouble.

He'd left Ziva flirting with the best man – who looked faintly terrified – and gone in search of a drink. Abby's pleas for a dance were deflected onto McGee, who shot him an unfathomably dirty look.

He stopped to talk to Cynthia, telling her how gorgeous she looked, and how lucky Richard was.

He'd already made sure Richard knew _exactly_ how lucky he was the day after he proposed.

She blushed, and smiled coyly at him. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, made his excuses, and headed for the bar.

He'd only taken a few steps when he spotted DiNozzo. Jacket had barely made it to the evening celebration, tie long gone as well - he looked at ease. Relaxation was a good look on him.

Unsurprising, really. It'd been a rough few months for all of them. Solid, relentless, all-consuming work. Days off few and far between. He'd driven them all hard.

Hadn't been aware the cracks were showing in Tony until he saw him standing there. The difference was striking. Take all the stresses away and it was easy to see how he got the harem of women trailing in his wake. Classical good looks, blinding smile, athlete's physique, and an innate ability to dress well. Drew the eye without trying. Best set of legs in the room.

There. Right there. Best set of legs in the room? What was he _thinking_?

A quick mental check confirmed that he had not had nearly enough bourbon for that to qualify as a drunken aberration.

Just an aberration then. Easy enough to do something about the drunk part, though. Way past time for another.

He got to the bar just as Tony upped his to a double, and smoothly added his order on, not bothering to hide his smirk when Tony tensed up from head to foot. It was too much fun, sneaking up on him. And in his experience there was precious little fun to be had at a wedding.

The way Tony was ogling the girl behind the bar, it wasn't surprising he'd yet to respond to Gibbs. His hand was halfway to slapping him upside the head to get the man's attention back where it belonged before he remembered that it didn't belong there when they were off duty. If Tony wanted to ogle girls he could.

Didn't need Gibbs' permission.

_Damn well should need Gibbs' permission._

There was a line, though, between flirting and bad manners. Time to prompt Tony to get back with the program.

It was that or forcibly drag the man's nose out of her cleavage, and that might be a touch over the top.

Not that he cared. If Tony's nose was going to be anywhere, it should be…

Holy hell! Where had _that_ thought come from?

He needed that drink. Now.

With hindsight, touching DiNozzo may have been a tactical error. He might have simply intended to lean over and get the glass, and the easiest way to do that was to rest on the shoulder in front of him. But as soon as he executed the manoeuvre his palm started to tingle, and further down there was _brushing_, and the room was suddenly very hot and it was difficult to concentrate.

It was even more difficult to take his hand back again, but he was a marine – a _straight_ marine – so he knew he could do it. Even if it took him longer than expected.

That got a lot easier when Tony upgraded to full-on flirting with the barmaid. The tingling in his palm deepened into a burn, and he pulled away, melting into the crowd and leaving Casanova there to do his thing.

Because he'd heard plenty of reports that he was _very_ good at his thing.

As he skirted his way around the edge of the room, he considered that he really should have known better than to come to a wedding. They never went well.

No. They _rarely_ went well. One had.

And no doubt Shannon was laughing her ass off right now, wherever she was. That surprisingly loud guffaw that was so out of place from her slender frame, finished off with a very unladylike snort that he could never help but grin at.

He caught a glimpse of Abby out of the corner of his eye, and slipped through the nearest door before she had a chance to spot him. He loved her dearly, but now was _not_ the time.

Alone in an unfamiliar corridor, he stopped and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes for a minute. He took a breath.

It did no good. He could still see the sinuous line of Tony's back and leg with his eyes shut. The way those pants clung. The faint flush to his cheek that was decidedly alluring. The long eyelashes, and the soft lower lip, and _oh God_.

This was wrong.

Tony was his subordinate.

Tony was straight. Usually very straight, about four times a week, work permitting.

_He_ was straight, damn it. Surely that was the important point here?

What on earth was he thinking?

No. _What_ he was thinking wasn't an issue, because some part of his brain was being fairly persistent about showing him, in surprisingly graphic detail.

_Why_ he was thinking it? That was the question.

Jen had accused him of having a mid life crisis when he'd nearly gotten both himself and Maddie killed.

She'd been well wide of the mark. That had had nothing on this.

He gave himself a mental headslap. He was sorely tempted to back it up in reality, but figured he may not look entirely sane if he did. Wouldn't usually care, but Cynthia deserved a night off from the random crap NCIS usually threw at her. It was her wedding day, after all.

Anyway, looking sane? Not so much. If anyone saw him skulking in a corridor because he couldn't look his Senior Field Agent in the eye without thinking some utterly inappropriate thoughts, he'd have some explaining to do, and it wouldn't sound _sane_.

_Suck it up Gunny. Get your ass back in there, get your head back in the game, and make sure you get some samples of the canapés to test for hallucinogens in the morning._

Palm was still burning. Could still smell DiNozzo's cologne.

With a put upon sigh, he peeled himself away from the welcoming cool of the wall. He was former Gunnery Sergeant and current NCIS Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. He was a marine.

He was going back into that party, and he was going to damn well enjoy it.


	3. Chapter 3

Tim had a headache. Not the kind of headache that would force him to go off and lie down in a darkened room. No, this was the other sort. The '_why am I the only sane person I know?'_ kind of a headache.

What he really needed was a genie. Because if he could have one wish right now, it would be to have brought a date. He wasn't fussy over who. Just someone who didn't mind being used as a human shield.

This was why he went clubbing with the team as little as possible. Tony had magnetised to the skimpiest dress he could see. Ziva was attracting the eyes of every man in the room – firstly in admiration, then once they got close enough, in terror. Which left him. Dancing with Abby.

He was man enough to admit he didn't have what it took. Not in stamina, not in dance moves, not in cast iron toes.

He muttered a brief thank you to whatever deity had seen fit to give him a break as she tottered off to the ladies room. He felt like a king when he was dancing with her, he really did – but only for the first twenty minutes or so. After that it was self-preservation all the way.

He figured he was due a break. He'd gone above and beyond tonight. There was no need to feel guilty for taking his chance to escape. After all, it was a lovely night - one that practically demanded he take a few minutes out of the team asylum to appreciate it. This balcony he'd accidentally stumbled across - after eight minutes of frantic searching - was pretty secluded.

And no, he wasn't _hiding,_ thank you very much. Just recovering. That was all. It was cool. Pleasant. _Peaceful._ The sky was clear, and he could see Ursa Major just off to the left. That had been the first constellation he'd learnt. He got two gold stars for that. He'd had a soft spot for the Big Dipper ever since.

Movement down below caught his eye. A flash of white – Tony. Tim bit down on his lip. He was just getting comfortable here. The last thing he needed was to find himself overlooking one of the great DiNozzo's trysts.

Which of course, meant that true to form, Tony strode across to the bench that was almost directly beneath his balcony and sat down. It was just far enough forward to leave Tim staring at the top of his head.

He pushed himself back off the railing. There'd be somewhere else to recover. He heard more than enough about Tony's love life during the morning-after bragging sessions, without sitting through the main event as well.

Then he paused. Maybe he should stay. See if the bragging matched reality. The look on Tony's face if he could call his bluff when he was showing off tomorrow would certainly be worth it.

Mind made up, he settled back onto the railing. Tony was still there – and still alone. As Tim looked down, Tony dragged a hand through his hair, pulled in a deep breath, and threw his head back.

With an inaudible yelp, Tim ducked down out of sight. There was silence. Then...

"You're a fool, Anthony Dinozzo. You know that? A triple decker fool, with nuts sprinkled on top."

Cautiously, Tim rose back up. Tony had his eyes closed, and as long as he kept his current position - a half crouch to one side, from where he could peer over the railing quite easily - he was still pretty much hidden.

There was a small snort. "Nuts sprinkled all around, if the last few cases are anything to go by."

"That had better not be a reference to the team, DiNozzo."

Tim almost leapt out of his skin. Luckily, any sound he might have made as he did so was drowned out by Tony's squawk as Gibbs materialised beside his right shoulder. In fact, the man who once thought it hilarious to burst a balloon right behind him when he arrived to switch shifts for a stakeout jumped so violently he nearly came right off the bench.

Tim thoroughly approved of karma.

"Jeez, Boss. You want me to have a heart attack?"

To be fair, Tim thought, Tony _had_ turned a rather violent shade of red.

"You got some heart trouble I should know about?"

"No!"

Tim really couldn't see why Tony was quite so vehement. The result of his last physical had been summed up in a single line: "Agent DiNozzo is in perfect physical condition." He knew this because when he arrived back in the office that day, the entire area – except for Gibbs' desk – had been covered in photocopies of the quote. Somehow, Tony had even managed to persuade Agent Verity Lambert to purr – and that was the _only_ word for it – the phrase into his phone and made it his ringtone.

"Blushing, DiNozzo? You trying to hide something?"

Tony's mouth flapped open and shut soundlessly.

"Got a girl out here?"

Tim found himself rather surprised at the amount of disapproval Gibbs let slip with the question.

"'Cause that girl behind the bar seems like a nice sort. Doesn't need you messing her about."

That would explain it. Gibbs wasn't one for poor standards of behaviour, on or off the job. Still, he normally went for a 'don't ask don't tell' approach with Tony's personal life. Anything he wouldn't approve of, he made sure not to hear about.

"No. Just wanted some fresh air. Clear my head." After a moment, Tony resumed his original position, laying back, eyes closed. As far as Tim's observational skills could tell, he didn't look anywhere near as relaxed as before.

Gibbs stayed where he was, staring silently.

Tim was getting a little concerned. There was something a bit off about Gibbs. And about Tony, come to that. Not least the fact that neither seemed to have noticed that there was anything off about the other.

Maybe he should get some samples of the canapes. There were a lot of NCIS agents here. It was entirely possible that somebody could have seized the opportunity to spike the food.

Tony's eyes opened again, and Tim shrank back a little further.

"Did you want something?"

"What?"

Gibbs was still staring, and kept doing so until Tony sat straight up and stared back. Then he blinked, once.

"What did you want me for?"

The silence before Gibbs spoke was just a little bit too long, and his voice when he did was gruffer than usual. "Who said anything about wanting you?"

Tony shivered, looked down. "You just came out here to make sure I wasn't two timing the barmaid?"

"Yes. No." Gibbs grunted in frustration. By now, Tim was pretty certain he wasn't going to eat or drink anything else tonight. This was all a bit surreal for his liking. "I came out for some fresh air, believe it or not."

"Great minds think alike." Tony gave a wry smile, but his voice was flat.

"Guess so." Gibbs tone mirrored his exactly.

Silence fell again. Tim was just starting to enjoy it when it was broken by a very distinctive sound.

"Giiiibbs! Toneee! Here you are! You have to come and dance. _Now_."

...and... wait for it... yes, there was the sound of a not overly delicate foot stamping.

"_Now_! I can't find Timmy anywhere. Have you seen him? Come _on_!"

Very secluded, this balcony. Tim sank right down onto his backside, leant up again the wall, and stared out at Ursa Major. You knew where you were with the stars.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: If you've left a review on chapter 2 or 3, thank you very much - your feedback is greatly appreciated. Unfortunately at the moment ffnet won't let me reply to individual reviewers, so apologies for the bad manners. As soon as its fixed, I'll start answering properly again.**

A month had passed. Thirty-one days. Thirty-one_ nights_, including this one. Eight spent working. Four with Sondra – all night. Four with Ziva, but only for cooking and home alone after. Three partying with Abby. One getting McGee very drunk. Seven dates – four lasted the night, one was trying to make her boyfriend jealous, one turned him down and one was just… odd. Three at home watching movies. Plus this one.

Thirty-one days. Eight days off duty, three where Gibbs was in New York, one that Tony spent sitting around in court waiting to be called.

Nineteen normal working days. Where normal was no longer defined as waking up, going to work, teasing the gullible, getting grunted at and headslapped, and catching bad guys.

Well, yes, normal was still all that; but it was also looking at Gibbs before he could remind himself he shouldn't be_ looking_ at Gibbs. It was knowing down to the nearest inch exactly where in the room the man was, whether he was looking or not, because he seemed to have developed some sort of internal Gibbs magnet, and he could constantly feel the pull. Never mind magnetic north. His blood had two directions – Gibbs and south, generally in quick succession.

Normal was getting glared at, and thinking he could really get used to that shade of blue. Getting growled at and wondering if Gibbs used a similar tone in bed. Normal was also taking detours on the way to Abby, or autopsy, to stop off in the men's room, or the stairwell, or even a handy supply closet. Normal was spending those snatched moments giving himself a severe talking to, because he was straight, and didn't think things like this; and Gibbs was straight, and would probably skin him alive if he ever suspected he did.

It was strange. And tiring . And despite said talkings to, he wasn't freaking out over the whole obsessing over his boss thing anywhere near as much as he should have been. Because the thing was, he'd never done this over a girl either. And truth be told, as there wasn't any precedent of any size, shape or gender, it was just kind of nice. It made the boring days a little bit brighter.

Nothing had actually changed at work, except for his new tendency to daydream about someone in the room, rather than drifting off into any one of a hundred and one other distracting thoughts.

And to be fair, Gibbs could be a very distracting thought, when you actually thought about him. About strong, rough hands, and almost-but-not-quite smiles, and about sheer force of personality. Deep hidden nuances. Animal magnetism on an epic scale.

He was _so_ screwed.

He had to stop doing this. Had to. Because Abby already knew something was off and was doing her damnedest to find out what. He couldn't keep wishing murders on people just to keep her busy enough that she wasn't trying to pry into his private life. God help him if she ever managed to get far enough on top of her workload to turn the full force of her attention onto him.

And as if that wasn't enough, Gibbs had upped the ante with the head slaps and the glares and the dry as dust sarcastic comments lately, which was a sure fire sign that he was thinking something was up with Tony too.

He had a choice. He could firmly stick a lid on this thing and ignore it until it went away – no more looking, or thinking, or imagining, or any of those other new and interesting little habits that seemed to be cropping up in his daily routine lately.

Or he could carry on as he was doing, and make sure his funeral arrangements were up to date. He figured 'death by embarrassment' would be a first for Ducky.

No choice at all there. Denial it was. As of right now, there was nothing to see here. He was straight, and Gibbs was straight, and he'd tell Abby he'd been mooning over some model type who could wrap her legs around her ears and tie a cherry stalk up in her mouth.

It was a thought that came with its own surround sound visual, minus one model type and plus one alpha male, and it blew a small - but _perfectly_ formed - bullet hole straight through the middle of his plan.

He knew he should have called Sondra. Never mind that she was still pissed with him over their last date; or more to the point the aftermath of their last date, when it was ever so slightly possible that his mind had gotten a little distracted at the wrong moment, and she had somehow, in that weird way women had of honing in on that one thing you thought you'd hidden away so well they'd never find it, _known_…

He paused, reatracing his mental meanderings a couple of times. What did it say about his mind right now that not only was he getting distracted from his distractions, but that he wasn't entirely sure he was making sense to himself when he did so?

The point _was_, he should have called Sondra, because sitting at home on his own wasn't helping. It led to thinking, which led to imagining, which led to him getting hot under the collar and uncomfortable further down. And no way was he going to take care of that, because it was a step too far. He was, after all, straight.

Anyway, this would blow over in a few days, as would Sondra's mood, and when it did, he didn't want to be left with the knowledge that he'd... ah... _relieved the tension_ imagining some of the alternative forms of entertainment Gibbs could provide. He had willpower – whatever Ziva might think - and women. That was all it would take.


	5. Chapter 5

A month had passed. The fact came easily, because Gibbs had been mentally ticking off the days until this aberration had gone away.

It hadn't.

It had dug its heels in. Instead of forgetting all about it, he found himself noticing things. He'd always let Tony's show and noise wash over him. Mostly wasn't for his benefit in any case.

Never used to recognise his cologne.

Never used to run his eyes over him every morning, noting all the visual clues. Did he look tired? Happy? Dishevelled?

Always heard what he said, but now it stayed with him, and his mind would play it back to him in quieter moments.

"_Late? I'm not late, Probie. I'm exactly on time. And really, she's twenty three with legs to die for. The fact that I'm not late should stand as a testament to my character."_

No matter. He'd carried on as normal. If normal happened to include a little bit more time in the office, and pairing up with DiNozzo on investigations more regularly, well that was his prerogative.

And if it included working so hard on the boat that he might have to start selling sawdust to local pet owners, then so be it.

Just because there wasn't a deadline on the boat was no reason not to get on with it. He enjoyed working on it. It soothed him. Cleared his head.

As long as he was working on the boat, his mind wasn't wandering. Not onto anyone. Any_thing_. Work. He wasn't thinking about work.

Come on Jethro. You can do better than that.

He'd never been one to hide. Thing was, if he was concentrating on the boat, then he wasn't concentrating on Tony; on his blinding smile and his boundless energy. And his four dates with Sondra. By Tony's standards that was practically a relationship.

Plenty more evidence for that. In between the dates, he'd spent more time than usual talking about her. And he'd been even more easily distracted than usual since Cynthia's wedding.

Wouldn't normally have paid much attention to that either.

Gibbs should have clapped him on the shoulder and wished him well. But touching him really didn't seem like a good idea. And he wasn't sure he did wish him well. The woman was too… or not… ah, _Hell_.

She was all nails and shopping and pet names, and it would never last. He'd married one of those, and she'd turned into a screeching harpy pretty damn quick. Couldn't kick back with a woman like that. DiNozzo would work that out soon enough, and drop her.

Oh for... this was _crazy_. How old was he? Too damn old to be jealous of a blousy barmaid. And more than too damn old to be mooning over someone ten years and change younger than himself.

A man. A _straight_ man. Just like Gibbs was. No place for mooning.

He had thought he'd put all this sort of stuff behind him. He had his work and his boat and he didn't want anything else. Anything else ended badly, every time.

So why was he sitting here, leaning against a boat he should be working on, wondering what Tony was up to?

He was no good at this. This was where Ducky came in. Gibbs would invite himself over for an evening, and have a good rant about why relationships with him in them were doomed to fail. And Ducky would listen, and disagree, and patiently translate everything he didn't get into language he actually understood.

Ducky was better at his relationships than he was.

Ducky was better at understanding him than he was.

He should go talk to Ducky.

One problem there. What exactly would he say? "Hey Duck! You know, all of a sudden I'm seeing DiNozzo in a whole new light. Whaddaya think?"

Humnph. Not gonna work. And really, there was nothing Ducky could tell him that he didn't already know. Unless DiNozzo was really a woman, and if that was the case, he was fairly certain the redoubtable Dr. Mallard would have seen fit to mention the fact sooner.

It was simple. This had to stop. Gibbs was going to have to let up on the all work and no play thing, because it had gone way too far if it had ended up with him fantasising about his Senior Field Agent. He had rules about things like that. Good rules, for good reasons.

Time to poke a toe back into the dating pool.

The thought left him cold. He didn't want to date. Not somebody he didn't know, anyway. All that polite interest and negotiation. If he was going to go out, he'd rather enjoy it. Go with someone he already knew. Someone he could talk to. No awkwardness. No getting to know you. Just fun and company.

This was ridiculous. He was going to have to snap out of it soon, because Tony knew him well enough to know when he was acting out of character. Before long he'd call him on it, and he had no excuse on hand.

No good excuse.

And that was if Abs didn't get there first, with her sideways looks and her nose for intrigue. She was slipping little questions into the conversation when he wasn't expecting them, trying to find out what he was distracted by – and she was good at it.

It might be worth trying her in interrogation one of these days.

Luckily, he was better at it, because if she got the slightest wind of this, he'd be sunk. She'd decide he should talk about it, and then she'd pout and back it up with big eyes, and he'd be well on his way to Hell, with or without the hand basket.

Tony'd be pushing the damn hand basket.

This couldn't last much longer. He wasn't prone to infatuations. It was bound to blow over in a day or two.

In the meantime, he could kill two birds with one stone. If he let Abs know he was looking, she'd do the hard work. She'd find the women, set the dates up, and do the getting to know you background for him. He'd just have to turn up and remember his manners.

Good: a plan. Gibbs worked better with a plan. Problem solved. First thing in the morning, he'd make a start.

Which left him tonight…


	6. Chapter 6

The curtains were closed.

Ziva looked to Tony, and received a single short nod which confirmed that he too had noticed. She was unsurprised. Tony noticed everything, whatever he may prefer you to think.

There were no other indications that anything may be amiss. They reached the door, and Tony put up his hand, three fingers showing.

Two.

One.

She burst through the door, all her senses focused on what might be found on the other side. Tony would have her back.

First glance showed nothing.

Second glance revealed one door closed to their left, and two ajar ahead of them on the right. A set of stairs past the first door. Nothing else.

The building did not feel occupied. There were no sounds to suggest there was anyone there. Ziva trusted her training, and her training said this house was empty. She glanced at Tony, who moved smoothly up the hallway to check behind the first open door. He was quick and quiet, moving with speed and purpose, but not urgency.

Tony's instincts said that the house was empty, and she trusted Tony's instincts.

He was quick to clear both rooms, and with a quirk of his brow offered her the choice of going through the first door, or covering the stairs. She moved into position at the door, then opened it.

The room had been thoroughly turned underwards. There was no sign of life, but everything the room contained was upside down on the floor. It was entirely possible that there could be a body or two underneath.

She did not think there would be, but it did not pay to make assumptions.

There was a door at the far end. Just as she turned her focus on to it, Tony leant down and muttered in her ear, "Now you use those ninja skills of yours to get us there without disturbing the crime scene."

She smirked at him, while surveying the room with dismay. That had been a challenge, and she had no idea how she was going to meet it.

Not meeting it was not an option.

He was looking back at her with raised eyebrows, waiting for her to admit defeat. Had he not yet learned that she would never do so?

Admittedly she was stalling, just a little, while waiting for inspiration to strike, which it would. The alternative was unthinkable. Tony had been getting increasingly insufferable for weeks. He made frequent reference to the woman he had met at the wedding, and if she was responsible for the attention seeking and the constant flood of inane chatter, then the sooner he moved on the better.

She was no doubt responsible for the mooning and the distractedness, and that was little better. However, that could be controlled by repeated demonstration of a particular ear flick that had first worked wonders when his attention drifted off on their night out to celebrate closing the Hadyn case.

There was hope. At the time in question, he had been staring at a slender redhead who was doing everything she could to garner Gibbs' interest. Tony's face when his boss began to flirt back had been without price. He did not like competition.

Which brought her back to the challenge. Tony winning was not an option. It would only make him worse.

"Nothing doing, Ziva? Never mind, we all have to find our limits. Not your fault you can't do it."

"Who said I cannot-"

A loud clattering from the other side of the close door stopped her thoughts. It was followed by a vehement curse from Gibbs, another clatter, and then a full scale bellow:

"_McGee!"_

A quick glance back at her partner confirmed that he was fully alert again, already picking his way across the debris with a surprising lack of any disturbance for one so big and heavy, and moving with such determination.

She matched him step for step.

This time there was no hesitation at the door, Tony falling straight into covering as she took the handle. For all their competition, they knew where their strengths lay. If whatever was on the other side of that door was bad, then she needed to be in the front to take the fight to their opponents. Tony could shoot around her.

She threw it open and they both moved smoothly through, looking to identify the threat. She saw nobody except Gibbs, scowling with thunder, and McGee, who was staring upwards at some cupboards.

"Having trouble, Probie?"

"I… ah…"

"Quit dithering and catch the damned cat, McGee."

"On it Boss."

Then Ziva saw the culprit. It was a large – very large – tawny coloured feline, and it was currently crouched along the top of the kitchen cupboards. The noises had evidently been the sounds of pans being knocked to the floor.

All this trouble for a cat. She glared at it, and then took a step towards the cupboard. It flattened its ears, flexed its claws, and hissed at her.

Her training did not cover cats. Nor did her job description. She moved back again, leaving McGee to it. There was a soft snort from Tony, still in the doorway, and she chose to ignore it with dignity. She did not see him volunteering to help. McGee flapped ineffectually at the cupboards, and there was another hiss and a swipe.

"Place is clear, Boss, if you're interested."

Gibbs turned a scorching stare on to Tony, who met it with a grin and a twinkle. The stare bounced off without harm. Ziva was inclined to think it even faded a little. "Been turned over though. It's a real mess in there."

Gibbs turned his look on McGee, who opened his mouth, then closed it again, swallowed, nodded decisively, and began to clamber up on to the counter.

Ziva watched the cat. The cat watched McGee.

Finally on his knees on the counter, McGee balanced himself carefully, and stretched up.

The cat hissed.

McGee flinched, cast a brief, telling glance at Tony's even wider grin, visibly braced himself, and lunged for the cat -

...who waited until the man was committed, then leapt from its perch and bounced off the top of McGee's head, straight at Gibbs. Before he had even the chance to react, it was airborne again, finally disappearing onto the top of the fridge.

Ziva stared after it in awe.

Gibbs glared after it in anger. Any human would have quailed under the weight. A pair of green eyes glowed out as good as they got.

"Probie!" Tony yelled, and Ziva whirled round to see him diving in as McGee lost his precarious balance.

Tony caught him enough to slow his momentum. It made all the difference between the younger man's head hitting the tile floor, and it hitting Tony's midriff.

"Jeez, McHeavyweight. You wanna let me catch my breath here?"

She had to. _Had_ to. Tony would have, the other way around. "Oh, I do not know. The two of you look most… intimate. It is kind of cute, really." She offered her sweetest smile at twin looks of confusion.

She wished she had a camera for the moment when Tony realised exactly where McGee had come to rest. The look of embarrassed horror was truly exquisite.

"McGee! Quit making out with DiNozzo. I gave you an order."

She did not need the instant sobering of her colleagues to know that Gibbs had had enough. His voice was all ice and impatience. McGee scrambled to get up, and Ziva would forever after swear that she had heard Gibbs growl as the object of his displeasure twisted and turned trying to find a handhold that was not even more compromising.

He did not succeed. On the contrary, both expressions would appear to confirm that she was correct in thinking she had spotted lip to zip contact.

She would visit Abby and enjoy the retelling just as soon as she was able.

After a few moments, it was apparent that McGee had no idea of how to entrap the feline. He approached the fridge with extreme caution, then circled around it. She thought he may be looking for handholds.

Tony also watched. Then he spoke.

"What ya waiting for?"

McGee shot him a dirty look. "If you think you can do better, Tony..."

Tony merely raised an eyebrow, and gave him a long look. Then he turned and left the room.

"McGee!"

"Yes, Boss."

The door behind her opened again and her partner returned, carrying a large plastic box. McGee stared. Unexpectedly, Gibbs relaxed his face into a mere frown.

"Tony?"

When would their youngest colleague learn not to set Tony up like that?

"Cat." Tony pointed at the top of the fridge, then down at his feet. "Box."

"Exactly." McGee was mimicking Tony's inflection precisely. "Cat." He exaggerated the upward pointing. "Box." Then he exaggerated the downward.

Gibbs settled a hip back against the table. He was within a reaching distance of a smile.

"Step away from the fridge, McSpike."

"Who do you think you are, the cat whisperer?"

"Nope. The brains of this operation. Bosses excepted, Boss."

"Get on with it."

Once McGee was at a safe distance, Tony moved into the centre of the kitchen, and looked around. Then he moved towards a cupboard, opened it, reached in, stood up and closed it again.

There was a soft shuffling sound from the top of the fridge.

Tony detached a container from the side of the box, opened the pouch he was holding and emptied the contents in.

A soft plop heralded the arrival of the feline on the floor. After a moment of stillness, except for the twitching of the end of its tail, it marched across, and bumped a head against Tony's leg.

The food went in the box, followed by the cat. The door was shut.

"Rum Tum Tugger behind bars. No, no need to thank me, Probie."

"Never took you for the kind of guy who was into musicals, DiNozzo."

For just a moment, Tony looked like a rabbit who had been stopped by the nightlights, and then he rallied.

"Was a poem before it was a musical, Boss. T S Eliot, you know."

"Never took you for the kind of guy who was into poetry, DiNozzo."

It was always joyful to see Tony without words. It almost made up for the fact that she had no idea what anybody was talking about.

"You're bleeding."

Gibbs looked taken affront at the change of subject. Tony was correct, however. There was blood on his hand.

"Just a scratch."

"Just a scratch that's about to contaminate the crime scene. Kit's in the car. I'll wrap it for you."

Gibbs had no argument. Tony ushered him out of the door, leaving McGee to collect the cat box. She herself brought up the rear.

Gibbs remained compliant as Tony pulled back his sleeve to reveal three long, surprisingly deep looking gouges down the back of the arm. Ziva found herself more impressed by the feline's abilities by the minute.

Certainly it hurt – Gibbs flinched as Tony's fingers reached the bare skin. As they explored the wound, it appeared to take more effort than she would have expected for him to remain still.

Tony, for his part, was exceedingly delicate, barely grazing across the skin as he cleaned it.

There was a silence there that did not wish to be disturbed. She did not understand it, but respected it anyway.

McGee did not. "You a secret cat keeper Tony?"

There was a delay before his answer, slightly distracted in sound.

"Not me. This girl I knew. She had five. And don't you believe what they tell you about women who keep a lot of cats. Best sex I ever had. You know, there was-"

Gibbs hand jerked out of Tony's grasp, stopping the flood of words short.

"Really?"

He answered McGee, despite never taking his eyes off Gibbs' arm. "Yeah. She would only sleep with people all five of them approved of. They were picky, so that ruled out most of her dates. When one passed the test, she really made the most of it. Very agile. Very, _very_ agile."

"You done?"

Tony fumbled the bandage he had just picked up, and only just clung on. "Nearly."

"Well hurry it up. We got a case to solve."

With that, the fun and games stopped. It was easy to hear the line Gibbs drew with his comments. Even Tony grasped it, falling silent and finishing up the dressing in light, dancing movements, as though he could not wait to be done.

She knew exactly how he felt. She too was desiring to have this case completed. She would find out more of this cat lady, and what Tony considered to be very agile, when they were done.


	7. Chapter 7

Never mind Russian roulette Deer Hunter style, Tony thought. At least that was relatively quick, as things went. No, this was proper torture.

He'd been sitting in this car now for – he scratched his wrist, surreptitiously glancing down to –

"I swear, you check that watch once more DiNozzo, and I'll throw it out the window."

- three hours, twelve minutes and fifty three seconds.

Normally, he didn't mind stakeouts this much. Okay, so they bored him, which meant he had to make his own entertainment, but they weren't this bad. This was excruciating.

He'd been penned in a car with Gibbs for over three hours, waiting for Robert Siddal's buyer to show up. So far, there had been no sign. The audio feed from the apartment had given them singing in the shower, then nothing, and then the radio. No sign of anyone other than Siddal.

Of course, they couldn't leave until the buyer showed, because if that data spent any more than a microsecond outside of their surveillance NCIS would be paying from here to eternity.

Which left him and Gibbs in this car. Together. _Close_ together. He'd run a practised eye over the size and shape of the vehicle within the first ten minutes, without even meaning to. And things had only gotten worse after that.

He was nervous. His libido swore there was a charge in the air tonight, and his brain was trying very hard to watch every word that came out of his mouth because he thought he might say something very stupid if he wasn't careful. Accidentally, mortifyingly stupid that was, not his usual kind of stupid.

Because all he could think was how close the man was…

And how easy it would be to…

And just how good they both could…

And that was really not the way this stakeout should be going. He couldn't afford to say the first thing that popped into his head, because that could get him castrated. And he couldn't afford to let his hands give into instinct, because that would probably lead to dead.

So he was babbling. He'd started off with a rolling monologue on the Lord of the Rings trilogy, then gone into a blow by blow – _bad choice of words, Tony!_ - of the latest releases.

It didn't help that Gibbs was being more taciturn than usual, and Tony found himself filling what little space there was in the car with words of any persuasion rather than fall quiet and sit there counting Gibbs' heartbeats. Films gave way to restaurants gave way to Sondra gave way to 'So how did your date with Lesley Van Dijk go, Boss?

That was when Gibbs' patience had finally snapped and he'd threatened to gag him. It had led to an intense, uncomfortable silence, and Tony really hoped that Gibbs thought that was because he was offended, or intimidated, and not because his brain had short circuited with thoughts he shouldn't be having at all, or about a man, or about his Boss, or about the situation.

They'd both remained quiet after that, and all Tony could do was hope that Gibbs had no idea of anything other than that his Senior Field Agent didn't know when to quit. If the man were to realise just what some of this tension actually was…well, he was on a shorter fuse than usual, if you went by the bruising grip on the steering wheel and the thin lipped glower offered to the world at large. If he knew Tony was cataloguing the alternative uses this car _could_ have, Gibbs would be so far beyond pissed he couldn't imagine.

Finally, his personal second circle of Hell was interrupted by a movement in the shadows. "Boss."

Gibbs gave a short nod, eyes tracking the progress of the man on the opposite sidewalk, up to Siddal's gate, where he took a quick glance around, before turning in.

"Here we go."

After a moment they heard the knock on the door fed back to them by the audio.

Gibbs flicked at his mike. "No-one moves until that data's been handed over."

There were a series of murmured assents. They all knew that already.

The door opened.

"_Dale. You're late."_

"_Sorry. Traffic."_

"_Come here."_

Tony looked at Gibbs in askance, who looked back. There was nothing for a moment. Then –

"_Mmm. Missed you. Missed that."_

Tony could feel his eyebrows creeping towards his hairline.

"_Here now."_

This time the silence was more easily interpreted. Breathing. Soft huffing noises that had to be kissing. A deep, low groan.

"_Been way too long."_ Another huff. _"Couldn't you have got away any sooner? Over four hours since you called, man. And I couldn't get you out of my head for a single minute of it."_ The words were cut off with a sharply indrawn breath.

"_Just how I like you."_

Tony barely caught the humour in the voice, because he was too busy thinking that fate had finally decided to punish him properly. They were still staring at each other in mutual masculine horror. Gibbs had the slightest hint of deer in the headlights about his expression, which was almost enough to distract him from the unmistakeable sounds floating over the audio.

Almost.

"_Please, Dale."_

"_Begging already Bobby? Show me how bad… yeah."_

A zipper. Two groans, overlapping, overlaid, intermingled.

As if by some hidden cue, Tony found he and Gibbs turned away from each other at the same moment, both staring resolutely out of their windows.

It didn't change the fact that every inch of his skin was hyper aware of the closeness of Gibbs. That he could hear the unmistakeable sounds coming out of the apartment, and his damn brain was playing a whole different visual to it.

His mouth was dry, his heart was hammering, and he was… he was… he was wondering why he had ever thought these jeans would be a good bet for comfort tonight. They were anything but.

A growl, an oomph, more groaning. "_Stay there._"

He didn't have a choice, did he? Couldn't leave the car. Couldn't switch off the sound track. Couldn't not listen. Couldn't stop the images coming.

God, but that was a bad choice of words, even as it was a timely reminder that things could still get worse if he wasn't very, very careful.

Back inside the house, things were moving on. There were only occasional words now, interspersed between groans and inarticulate begging noises. He was absolutely damn certain he could map each and every one of them.

Gibbs was a silent stone presence beside him. Not moving. Not speaking. Tony could see his reflection in the dark of the window, jaw set in granite, shoulders tense, everything about the man reined in under the firmest of control.

Lucky bastard.

With a force of will he didn't realise he possessed, he finally managed to close his ears to the detail of the sounds, registering just enough to know they hadn't stopped yet. Instead, he concentrated on as many unsexy thoughts as he could muster – and luckily the past six months had plenty to choose from; in pressure, in stress, in discord. Some bad cases and worse personal times.

It worked. After five minutes his problem had receded enough to be manageable, even with events on the audio reaching a crescendo. Gibbs was still motionless, but he'd lost all desire to try and fill the gap with mindless chatter. He just wanted out. Wanted their not-so-private showing to be over, and this op to be finished, and to be able to go home and…

And?

And somehow he'd managed to inject a serious note into this obsession. Yeah so he'd wrestled down his physical reaction, at least until he could get somewhere private and do something about it.

"_Love you."_

"_C'mere."_

But apparently it wasn't just about the physical any more. The audio had trailed off into a litany of soft endearments and quiet snuffles that were even more intimate than what they had just been sitting through.

He'd only ever had that twice. And each time one of them had been lying.

He wanted it again. Properly. Wanted to go home to someone. To know someone would understand him without having to say a word.

Wanted what Cynthia and Richard had. What 'Dale' and 'Bobby' had.

Wanted it with the wrong person.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Gibbs' resolve finally snapped it was late enough that there were only a handful of people left in the bullpen. Of those still present, not one had the nerve to risk catching his eye as he rose from his desk and stalked across to stab at the call button.

Best way for everyone. He'd spent so much of the evening growling and glowering that it felt like the scowl was carved into his skull. As far as he was concerned, the night had been a disaster from start to finish.

No. Not true.

To be honest, with one glaring exception, the op had gone like clockwork. The whole team, complete with their haul of data and dirtbags, were back at HQ less than three hours after his terse "Go" had snapped the silence. He suspected the level of efficiency was mainly an attempt to avoid making his own towering mood worse.

The exception? DiNozzo. Of_ course_.

After that interminable, excruciating stakeout, where he kept his eyes forward and his mind on the job, right up until it became painfully clear that his life was being orchestrated as some sort of music hall farce, it had been a relief to get into action. It had been that or...

There was no or. Once it became clear that they were listening to an X rated soundtrack, Tony's face had gone though shock, horror and shuttered, and come out at acutely uncomfortable.

Tony. Free-and-easy Tony. Never short of something to say Tony. People's secrets and relationships are always my business Tony.

He'd have expected sharp observation, running commentary, or tasteless quips. At the very least a rolling monologue on porn movies.

Not sudden, appalled silence. Alongside the pained grimace and set jaw it had been a bucket of cold water to his libido, and he'd been shocked to find he even needed one. He'd thought he'd had a handle on this… thing, whatever it was. Thought he'd buried it successfully.

Apparently he'd been fooling himself. Things had been tense in the car right from the off. DiNozzo had seemed – over the top. Not his usual relaxed self. He'd wondered what had him off balance. Made a mental note to see if he could find out later.

Not any more. It was clear now that Tony's sixth sense for people had been picking up on Gibbs' own vibes without really realising what was going on.

Vibes that Gibbs hadn't been aware he was giving off.

By the time their perps had got down to business – in the literal sense – he'd been furious with himself. He despised a lack of professionalism in himself just as much as he did in anyone else. He did not approve of his personal life moving into his work life, and the fact that it had gotten to that point without him even being aware of it was eating away at him.

He'd made his share of mistakes in life. No doubt had plenty more to make. No need to make any one of them more than once.

He was angry, he was irritable, he was frustrated, and he was taking it out on everyone around him. Which was unprofessional in itself, but you couldn't win 'em all.

The door had barely clung onto its hinges when he entered the house. 'Dale' had taken one look at his face, turned white, and given himself up in record time. Siddal had turned on a dime and fled out back, moving so fast that he caught McGee momentarily off balance, and DiNozzo had had to go tearing after him.

He hadn't known this at the time. He'd heard a thud, and swearing and running feet.

A crash, another thud, and a string of fluent Italian swearing, breathless and strained.

It took a surprising amount of effort for him to not go chasing out to see what had happened, instead barking for a report, twice as angry when it didn't arrive immediately.

Typical. Give McGee all the time in the world, and he could still manage to be unprepared at the critical moment where there was a runner to be stopped.

Give DiNozzo an entire yard and street to play with and he'd find the only hidden pothole and rusty barbed wire mix in a twenty mile radius.

He'd tasked McGee with getting the bleeding, (_too quiet)_, white faced, (_hurting)_ DiNozzo to medical help, and forced himself to stay where he was and supervise proceedings, against all his louder instincts.

And now they were all done. McGee and Ziva were taking care of all the paperwork, the former out of embarrassed apology, the latter because she figured herself to be the only one capable, and she was probably right.

Which left him, rapidly dawdling his way down to autopsy, because he needed to know what kind of shape DiNozzo was in, but had no idea what to say, or how to say it. Or if seeing him at all right now was a good idea, because no matter what the rest of the agency thought, he wasn't a robot, and that audio had been...incendiary.

It was punishment, he'd decided. The fates had finally decided to show him what they were made of, by capping a lousy night with the realisation that his number one priority right now was running inventory on his Senior Field Agent to be sure that everything was ok.

Not that he didn't trust Ducky. Of course he did. But...

_But_ he was a proof kind of guy. He just needed to see for himself. Frankly, he was pretty sure that would be the only way to settle his restlessness for long enough to concentrate on wrapping up the op.

And if that was his list of priorities, then one thing was certain – this was no infatuation. This was something altogether different. Something that needed to be gotten a handle on now, before matters could get any worse.

A disaster from start to finish? Maybe.

But he had a nasty feeling that if he wasn't careful, this disaster might still be waiting to happen.


	9. Chapter 9

"Come on, Ducky. I'm fine. Can't you just let me go?"

Dr Mallard slowly turned back from the cupboard he was searching through, and merely looked at his patient.

"Ok, maybe not _fine_ exactly, but good enough. You didn't see him. If I don't get back up there, Gibbs is gonna-"

"Gibbs is going to what?"

Tony jumped a foot – as usual – and just managed to stop himself falling off the table he was sitting on. That was good, as he needed to carefully guard every shred of dignity he still possessed. They were rapidly getting away from him.

Of all the times for his Gibbs-dar to take a break.

"Uh... come looking for me, Boss. And here you are. Right on cue."

Gibbs strode into view, expression saying loud and clear that he knew that was so much BS.

Didn't matter really. Not only had he been expecting it, but to be quite honest, he was more interested in Gibbs in full on bastard mode.

The man was magnificent.

It was no secret that he'd always been attracted to people – to _girls_ – with attitude. He liked a partner who could give as good as they – _she_ – got. When it came down to it, he _liked_ a bit of a fight as foreplay.

Aside from the whole male and straight thing, Gibbs fit that bill very well.

Standing there, still dressed head to foot in the uniform black of the stakeout, the adrenaline of a well executed operation visible in the lift of his chin and the set of his shoulders, he looked...

Hi eyes were burning with an ice clear gleam that would put a fresh cut diamond to shame. Every muscle was taut and trained, and the whole ensemble made him look like he had Bond in his DNA. Connery Bond, at that.

He looked battle ready, he looked furious, he looked on fire.

He looked like the most enticing, touchable, vital thing Tony had ever seen. To reach out, run his fingers down that neck, glide across the shoulders...

To turn all that focus, aggression and sheer life onto himself and bathe in it...

He'd felt many things many times before, real and not real, but never like this. Never this desperate need to catch lightening in a bottle, to learn every mood and expression by touch and breath and need.

It was official. He was in way over his head.

He was beginning to suspect that he may not be as straight as he had thought. At least not when he was anywhere near Gibbs. He was...

He was in serious danger of giving Ducky something rather unexpected to note down as he was finishing patching him up.

It took an effort to drag his attention away from drowning in Gibbs, but the thought of Ducky finding the evidence just about gave him the impetus to do so. And apparently it was in the nick of time, as his Boss quit running a critical eye over him -

_...do not even go there, DiNozzo..._

- and spoke.

"Well?"

Ducky stared hard at Tony for a moment, then turned to Gibbs.

"No need to worry, Jethro. A couple of weeks of rest and care, and a course of antibiotics, and he'll be fine. The knee's a bit of a mess right now, but it's been worse. As for the gash on his arm, it's impressive to look at, and no doubt somewhat painful, but it was a clean tear, and I don't expect it to give us any problems."

"See? Fine, like I said."

"You're fine when Ducky says you are, and not before."

The comment was snapped at him with a single brief glare that had enough force behind it that Tony would swear it singed him wherever it touched. He thought it was probably a bad sign that that just made him want more. In fact, he was vaguely disappointed that Gibbs had already moved his attention back to Ducky.

"Rest?"

"Yes indeed. Keep the weight off the knee for a fortnight at least. Do you still have the crutches from last time?"

"Ah. Well. Er... they might have met with a small accident." An accident that had involved Abby, a bottle of vodka, a can of luminous paint, a vintage Harley Davidson, two bananas and a dress shirt.

Gibbs and Ducky were sporting twin frowns that suggested both had a fair idea of the basic nature of the 'accident'. Tony tried his hardest to look innocent. Unfortunately that had stopped working at around age seven.

"I see."

"Don't worry, Duck. I'll take him by the hospital in the morning and get him to _buy_ a new pair. See if that makes him take better care of them."

Great. Just great. Getting back into _that_ car with _that_ man was everything he didn't need right now. He'd spend every second of the journey remembering the goddamned stakeout. And he didn't mean the job related bits.

"Thank you Jethro. However, that still leaves us with the logistics of tonight to be determined."

"No problem. I'll double as the crutch. He'll be staying at mine anyway."

"Hey, I am still – _what_?"

"You're staying at mine. Gimme your keys – Abby'll get your stuff."

He could feel himself gaping, and forced his muscles into shutting his mouth. The early part of the evening had been bad enough, and he could still feel the after effects whenever he let his mind drift. Staying with Gibbs was just... no. No way. Fate could not hate him that much.

"Problem, DiNozzo?"

_Hell, yes__. Five more minutes alone with you looking like that and I'm gonna propose peeling that polo off with my teeth._ "Nope. No. Not at all."

"Then give me your keys."

_Hell, no_. "I was actually just going to go back to my place. No need to put you out."

"You live on the fourth floor."

"Well, yes."

"The elevator isn't working."

Oh crap. He'd forgotten they'd had that conversation. He'd forgotten the damn thing was on the fritz, come to that. Gibbs had been in the grey suit, with the pale blue shirt, and his mouth had gone on to autopilot while the rest of him took in the sight. He'd said whatever came into his head to give him chance to keep staring for a bit longer.

No wonder Gibbs was giving him that look.

"It should be fixed soon?"

"_Rest_, DiNozzo. Or have you suddenly developed a problem with staying at my place?"

There was a clipped edge to Gibbs' words, and a flatness about his lips, that told Tony the other man had had enough of this conversation. One more protest, and he'd come after the reason Tony didn't want to stay over.

He had no ready reason other than the truth, and that wasn't an option.

Apparently fate _could_ hate him that much.

Oh well. Might as well approach his doom with those scraps of dignity on duty. "No problem at all, Boss. I'd hate to deprive you of my rapier wit and scintillating company in your hour of need."

Gibbs fixed him with that scorcher of a glare again, and all Tony's inner censor could do was come up with the incredibly unhelpful suggestion of a blindfold.

It was going to be a very long night.


	10. Chapter 10

On a normal day, the journey from HQ to home was a short interruption in Gibbs' day. This time it felt like an eternity before he brought the Charger to a halt in his driveway. And well before that point, he was beginning to suspect that taking Tony home with him - tonight of _all_ nights - might not have been one of his better ideas.

There had been an incident, numerous years ago, when a wife – Steph, if he remembered rightly - had finally lost it, for some reason he couldn't remember. The result was memorable though. She'd unleashed a tirade that put his drill sergeant to shame.

She'd opened with_"_You selfish, bull-headed, thoughtless_, jackass!_" It had been a good point then, and the passage of time hadn't knocked any of those edges off his personality.

Obviously.

Because the smart thing to do would have been to send Tony off with Abby or McGee as assistance, then take himself home to look for his equilibrium in a bottle of bourbon and a plane and chisel. Better for everyone.

But no. That wasn't the Jethro Gibbs way of doing things. Fact was, if Tony was in need of a bed for the night, or someone to act as a spare pair of hands, Gibbs took him in. That had been the way of things right from the start.

So now, even though most of his common sense knew that following the usual pattern under these… _circumstances…_ might be a very bad idea, he couldn't not do so. Because after all, he didn't want to raise a flag that anything was off here, did he? Not when it was so easy to stick with their usual habits. Carry on as normal and everything would be fine.

No questions, no pointed looks, no explanations. Just business as usual.

_That_ illusion lasted just until he got the pair of them in the car.

Then things turned awkward. More awkward, that was. Just as soon as they were back in the car, the ghost of that triple be-damned stakeout firmly settled in there with them.

Apparently, the car now rewired his brain to link Tony to a hardcore soundtrack. Simple as anything – he got in the driver's seat, Tony in the passenger seat, and – yep, there goes his brain, sailing off on a sea of X rated images and previously undreamed of fantasies.

The result? For once, Gibbs found he didn't quite trust in his usual demeanour. He was aware he was overcompensating, but frustratingly didn't know how to stop. He hadn't quite known where to look – so he didn't. Or what to say – so he didn't. Or what to do with his hands – so he settled for gripping on to the wheel a little too hard.

Tony, for his part, had been uncharacteristically quiet, tucked carefully into the seat instead of in his usual sprawl. And every time Gibbs spoke, Tony jumped, ever so slightly.

It might have been nothing. It was clear that he was feeling the effects of the injuries, even though he'd point blank refused to take the painkillers that Ducky had offered. He looked wan, and a little pinched - enough so that Gibbs was using his brakes more often and more carefully.

That didn't help the careful projection of normality either.

Thing was, Tony was an investigator by nature, and a damned good one. Especially when it came to people. He had an inbuilt instinct for seeing through people's secrets and lies.

Gibbs was beginning to wonder if he was on the brink of seeing through his own.

If he was? It could be a shortcut to the end of everything. Not in a major way – generally, DiNozzo was a broad-minded kind of guy. But that kind of truth was bound to put their working relationship under strain, regardless of anyone's best intentions. Rule 12 was there for a reason.

Rule 12 was there for every double edged snarky comment the morning after. For every glaring match conducted through a car mirror. For every unexpected pang of jealousy, or desire, that hit at the wrong moment. For all the times you thanked God that it was time to do your job and you could leave all the crazy emotional crap behind.

Rule 12 was there to keep minds on jobs, and working relationships working.

And there was the trouble. Because this little sleepover wasn't just about making a real effort for normality. It was also driven by some primal part of him that was determined that if anyone was going to be moving DiNozzo in to keep an eye on him, it was going to be himself.

There was a poetry to this. How many rules had he deliberately broken in his time, because they didn't suit him? Where else did Rule 18 come from?

Of course in this case, forgiveness wasn't likely to be any more forthcoming than permission. And he hadn't actually broken Rule 12.

A technicality. If Tony had been aware, and receptive, he would have done.

Not that any of that mattered. Because when he'd walked into autopsy, it was to see a DiNozzo who looked dazed, weary, and thoroughly banged up. And it was Gibbs' job to do something about that, whatever his base motivation for doing so.

So the fact was, he hadn't broken Rule 12, and his mind was still not properly on the job, and his working relationship was still not working. It was possible said rule was due a revision, of some sort.

Why? So he could _date_ DiNozzo? Hell, he couldn't even manage to sit in a car with the man.

This had gone far enough. Time to bury it, now, before he caused irrevocable harm.

He cut the engine, and jumped out in one smooth movement, glad to be out of the oppressive confines of the Charger and moving again.

_Now _he could be useful. He'd helped an injured Tony out of a car on numerous occasions before. It was easy. Open door. Apply leverage. Provide ballast.

But this time, he was a little too bullish, and Tony was a little too hesitant. It was all wrong, no matter what he did, and it was only when they took their first step - when Tony put some pressure on the injured knee, and his leg gave a little and he swore - that they clicked into normality. Gibbs suddenly felt Tony shift his weight properly onto the support he offered, and it felt right again.

Very right. Tony was always so damn warm, and heat suited the man down to the ground. Touch him right and he would burn so beautifully.

That heat was addictive. Every time Gibbs came into contact with it, he came away wanting to never give it up. To hold the heat and shape it into something more. Like taking raw wood and finding the boat it concealed.

Damn, damn, damn. If he was thinking of Tony in terms of boats, he really was... well, _sunk_, whether he liked the pun or not.

What would Tony do if he gave in to pure instinct and carried him the rest of the way? The thought sat there for a moment, taunting him, before it was abruptly dispelled.

"Tony!" Abby's cry of delight was just the wake up call he needed, and he firmly pushed away any ideas that he may have had about a fireman's carry.

"Wait 'till we get inside before you launch, Abs."

He heard a muttered "Aw." from behind them, and then the clatter of her returning to her car.

Refusing to let his thoughts drift any further into dangerous waters, he concentrated on the job at hand. Wasn't that difficult – he just had to focus on the feel of Tony under his hands, and against his side. On their movement together like they were one and the same.

It felt comfortable, and right, and it always had.

Now they'd found their rhythm it was a matter of minutes to get Tony in through the door and deposited on the sofa with his foot up.

And if Gibbs spent those few precious minutes happily enjoying warmth, solidity and male musk, then neither Abby nor Tony was psychic.

Probably.


	11. Chapter 11

Tony wasn't sure what he was more grateful for – that he was finally settled onto Gibbs sofa with no immediate prospect of having to move again, or that as soon as they'd got him there, Gibbs and Abby both left to get his stuff from the car.

No, not true. There was no contest. Five minutes alone gave him a much needed chance to regather his scattered equilibrium.

Or it would, except for the fact he had no idea where to start, because whatever he tried didn't seem to stand a chance against the feel of a pleasantly heavy, solid arm snaking down across his back and fingers curled into his waist, grip so firm it was just right and almost too much at the same time.

Thank God for Abby, because he had a horrible feeling that without her there, he might have protested when Gibbs let go. Might have held on too long. Might have pulled him down next to him. Might have said something that would have felt right for all of thirty seconds, but could never be unsaid when the other shoe dropped.

No, a chaperone was definitely the way to go, and if that made him Elizabeth Bennett, so be it. At least Gibbs would make an excellent Mr Darcy.

Thing was, despite what he'd said to Ducky, his knee hurt - a _lot_. There was no doubt that he needed the extra help. Hell, he needed the painkillers, but contrary to popular opinion he _could_ spot a bad idea at a hundred paces. At least sometimes.

Which left him here. Exhausted. In pain. _Horny_. His mental defences were flapping in the breeze, which left him prey to any passing... person... with a gruff in your face bedside manner and a pair of surprisingly expressive blue eyes.

On second thoughts, he should probably scrub any thoughts involving the word bed. Not that beds were a necessity exactly, but the word conjured certain... thoughts, that... well, _chair_, for example, didn't.

And why did he have to go and think that? Seriously, why? That was a thought, right there, that he hadn't needed to have, and – however alluring its potential – he could have lived very happily without. At least while the living in question was under the same roof as Gibbs.

Oh God. He was doomed.

"Hey, Tony! Comfy? Of course you are. That sofa is, like, the most perfect sofa ever, don't you think? I swear, you could sleep on there for, like, a month, without a single back twinge. Or not sleep, if you had a better offer. I'd cheat on my coffin with that sofa. Oh no - don't tell him, will you?"

Apparently, thanks to Abby he was going to have to scrub 'sofa' from his vocabulary as well. "Don't tell who?"

"Vladimir, of course."

"Of course."

"Promise."

"Abby, I promise not to tell your coffin that you have a soft spot for Gibbs sofa."

"Good. I brought takeout."

"I love you."

"It's Thai though - Ducky banned pizza. He said you had to have some nutritional value in your day."

"S'ok. I'm so hungry I'd eat something McGee cooked."

"You got a death wish, DiNozzo?"

"No boss. Just a healthy growing app... appetite."

There were going to be no words left in his repertoire. He'd have to resort to communicating in grunts.

Oddly enough, that mental image didn't help either.

Fortunately he had food to distract him, and not a minute too soon. The smell coming from the carton was heavenly. Apparently he was even hungrier than he thought he was, and for a few minutes silence reigned as they ate.

Which meant he could concentrate on not watching the firm lines of Gibbs' lips flexing and stretching with each bite he took.

Unsurprisingly, it was Abby who rekindled the conversation. "Bet you can't believe you missed all the fun, Tony! Ziva said she'd never seen any interview like it."

God bless her, and her uncanny ability to rescue him from himself. "Huh?"

She squeaked. "You didn't hear? How could you not hear? Apparently Gibbs went in to interview Dale Parker, and got as far as putting the file down, and Parker just told him everything. And by everything, I mean _everything_! Ziva said that he was obviously trying to make a good impression."

"You got a point, Abs?"

"Me? No?"

"Abs?"

"Who needs a point, Bossman? He asked Ziva for your name. And your number. And then for you to come back and finish processing him. He said he was a sucker for a powerful man, and that you were-"

"_Abby._"

Tony, absently choking on a knot of noodles, took comfort in the fact that Gibbs voice was a little – strangled.

"But-"

"No."

"But-"

"_No!_"

"You said you were open to any partner, as long as I thought you wouldn't want to kill them. Or them you."

"You did? Boss? Ow! Hey, she started it – give her the headslap!"

"How old are you? Ten?"

"He _did_, when he was asking me to find him someone to date. He never said no men. Just no one I thought he might be tempted to marry."

"You get Abby to organise your dates? Wow, Boss. You're braver than I thought."

"And what to you mean by that, buster?"

"Nothing. Ow! _Abby!"_

Tony wasn't sure whether to be happy that the conversation lapsed or otherwise. He shelved the debate, glancing up and around instead. Abby was spooning up her Pad Thai and attempting to look innocent. Gibbs was staring hard at his plate – it was possible that there was smoke rising from the spot in the firing line.

And himself? God only knew. Because for everything Abby had said, she hadn't actually _said_ anything, so whatever he was feeling – be it jealousy, possessiveness, hope, or utter astonishment – was no more than a mirage, really.

And to be honest, he was having more than enough trouble with his fantasy life lately, without Abby throwing petrol on the flames.

How did he ever get himself into these situations? None of the rest of the team showed such a talent for undermining themselves. Take Ziva - she would _never_ find herself in this kind of situation. Just look at the guy she met at the wedding. They'd been on several dates now, and Tony was almost certain that it was chiefly because he was too terrified to say no.

Not that it mattered. Ziva's approach was all well and good, but the chances of him - or anyone else - intimidating Gibbs into bed were about on a par with those of surviving a nuclear explosion by hiding in a fridge.

Once again, Abby's voice dragged his meandering mind back into the here and now. "Oh, oh, oh! I forgot! You're meeting Siobhan Roscoe at The Marinas next Saturday. At eight. With a yellow rose, and a bottle of champagne."

"A yellow rose?"

"Mm hmm. It's her favourite flower."

"Tell me she's not expecting him to remember that?"

Gibbs caught his eye then, warmth and approval, and Tony felt himself grin back without thought.

"What he said."

"Of course she is. C'mon Gibbs, you have to put _some_ effort in. We might love your taciturnity, but try it on a date and you won't even get to one hit wonder!" She careered to a halt, and blushed, just a little.

"So what you're saying is that to succeed with a woman, he has to act entirely out of character while paying through the nose for the privilege? You, know, Abs might have a point Boss. Maybe you should try a guy. At least you wouldn't need a yellow rose. Probably not the champagne, either."

Belatedly, he realised he'd said the last part out loud. Abby was staring a perfect round 'O' at him, and Gibbs had his head cocked to one side, in that way he had that left you feeling he was reading the inside surface of your brain.

"Just saying."

After another long pause, with Abby looking back and forth between them as if they were a tennis match, Gibbs lips twitched, and he straightened up.

"_You_ suggesting I hook up with the perp now?"

"No Boss."

"Good. Abs'll help you settle in. I'll be downstairs."

Gibbs collected up the remains of the take out, brushing a cold hot shiver across Tony's back as he passed, but saying nothing else.

Tony had precisely _no_ idea if that was a good outcome or a bad one.


	12. Chapter 12

The basement was safe harbour for Gibbs. There was a peace he could find there that was rare in his life.

But tonight, it was different. Tonight, all the air in the basement flowed in one direction. Each wall seemed to only exist to channel his attention to a single point.

In short – and however good he might be disguising it - all Gibbs' legendary focus was on the man sitting on the bottom of the stairs, watching him as he concentrated on shaping the timber under his hands.

Tony'd been there for about an hour now, helped down in a flurry of Abby. Nothing new, in itself. Hell - more than that, it was a favourite form of relaxation for both of them. They could have whole conversations in the sound of the wood being worked and the house settling easily around them.

And that was half the problem. In all the time they'd been doing this - the cases tough on Tony, where he'd come looking for somewhere to lick his wounds until he was ready to face the world again; the cases tough on himself where his friend had sat in silent vigil until he was sure all was well - he'd never struggled to find his centre the way he was now.

This time, he was too aware of the other man's presence. Instead of being a comfort, it was...

...a loose end.

Gibbs didn't like loose ends. Every question had an answer. Every problem a solution.

Tony was unpredictable. An enigma. It upset the order of his world.

He liked that.

Usually, the familiar ebb and flow of his craft - the freedom of not having to do anything other than let his hands take over - would ease his soul. It soothed him. Tempered aggression into determination, depression into resolution. It wasn't just the wood he worked down here.

But not tonight. Instead of settling into the trance-like rhythm that would take him away from anything he didn't want to think about, his mind kept slipping back to Tony's casual tease about trying with a guy, and the look in his eye when he hadn't replied. Something had slipped, from joke to not, and he'd mostly expected the other man to retreat to the TV for the rest of the night.

Instead he'd appeared on the stairs, as usual, and watched him work, as usual.

And there was absolutely nothing usual about it. Gibbs found himself labouring on automatic. His fingers felt flesh and muscle. His eyes saw skin, and heat, and want.

He was distracted enough just by Tony's presence that almost without thinking he was keeping the half formed framework between himself and the stairs. That way nothing unexpected was on show.

Abby was long gone. Had disappeared almost as soon as she'd brought Tony down to join him. In the quiet she left behind he found himself wondering again if this arrangement had been a good idea, because he was here, and Tony was here, and no one else was here, and all this effort and sweat and space could be put to much better use.

Another time, another life, and he would have done something about this. If he'd come across Tony in a bar. If there hadn't been nearly ten years worth of water already passed under that bridge. He'd have seen him, wanted him, and set out to get him. Closed the gap between them, Caught his face in the lightest of grips, dipped in and taken a kiss. Then more.

So easy. Too easy. Too difficult. Too much at risk. Tony was a good friend, an exceptional agent, an outstanding second. Couldn't risk losing all that in the pursuit of self interest. He didn't have the right personality to make that sort of juggling act work for more than five minutes after they got out of bed.

And more. Couldn't explain how out of the blue he'd had to re-evaluate most of what he knew about himself, when he'd suddenly realised that the single most important relationship of his life in the last few years was with this man. And that he didn't really care, because his gut was telling him this was right, and that overrode any argument his mind came up with.

Shaking himself free from his thoughts, he looked up from the wood, gaze unerringly latching on to Tony's. He couldn't turn away, looking on as the other man dropped his head to one side, and gave him a slow, lazy grin that lit up the very air, and burned its way into his chest.

Gibbs was certain that he was a long way out of his depth. And still swimming.

He gave himself a mental shake. God only knew if he was resorting to cliches like that then he might as well just shoot himself before he succumbed to terminal cheesiness.

Or shoot Tony. This was his fault, anyway. A smile like that should be licensed. It was lethal.

Then again, maybe it was just Tony that was lethal.

Gibbs shot a quick glare at the jar of Bourbon, and refused to notice that it was still his first, and he'd only had a couple of sips, because apparently he didn't want to be intoxicated tonight.

He was already_ relaxed_, and he was pretty sure he should leave it there. On current evidence, fate was altogether too willing to be tempted.

Regardless, this all had to be the fault of the alcohol. Because he certainly felt drunk. Midwinter drunk – a warm, comfortable, easy drunk that just needed a log fire. And a rug. And a locked door.

Maybe DiNozzo wouldn't notice if he snuck out for a quick phone call to Ducky to get his head on straight again.

He probably would though. And Ducky would only tell him what he already knew anyway.

Might as well stay put and bask in Tony while he could.


	13. Chapter 13

It was odd, Tony mused, how something normally so comfortable in it's familiarity could all of a sudden feel more alien than… well, Alien. The fact was, the two of them had done this exact same thing a hundred times before. Granted, the injuries varied – and on a really good day, didn't exist at all. But the basic still frame – Tony sitting on the fourth step from bottom in Gibbs' basement, nursing a beer and watching as his boss worked – had been created many a time. It was their refuge. An isolated bubble of safety and tranquillity.

Not this time.

This time it was muscles moving under shirt sleeves, sweat in the air. It was want, a want that burned through him, but in a good way, leaving sparks and glory in its wake. A want that was made of desire and anticipation.

Unfortunately, he was fairly sure that by the time he was considered fit enough to return to his own place, his own _space_, that want would have intensified, rising up and sliding over the top, leaving him mired in a want that ate away at him. A want made of unresolved wishes, and of might haves.

He firmly closed that door. He could worry about that as and when it happened. There was no need to waste prime Gibbs-ogling time brooding over maybes. Not when his tongue was itching at the glistening of the other man's throat.

He took a deep breath, savouring the faintly musty, dusty aroma. This place had been his bolt hole almost from the moment he made the move to DC. When the world went wrong, he'd come down here and lose himself in the smell of wood and bourbon. In the solid reassuring presence of Gibbs.

A year almost to the day after he'd joined NCIS, he'd learned that even Gibbs could get knocked off balance by a case. And he'd happily repaid the favour, more than a little surprised that Gibbs let him.

Two days afterwards, and Ducky's pat on the shoulder and soft "Well done, my boy." into his ear was still one of his most cherished memories.

But despite all the precedents, never had the basement felt as small as it did tonight. No, not small exactly. Enclosed. _Intense_. Gibbs by nature was always intense, but not in this way. There was a... _something..._ about him this time. He hadn't settled to the wood the way he normally did, instead approaching it in fits and starts, picking up a tool, using it for a few minutes, putting it down, flicking Tony a glance, picking up something else...

The glances were frequent, and inscrutable. But they were most definitely intense. Each one that came his way had his breathing quickening, his skin prickling, his spine straightening.

They also left him wondering if Gibbs had managed to see behind his accidental throwaway comment earlier, or if he was_ looking_. And a little, utterly focused part of his brain took that possibility, and ran with it, and _imagined_.

Oh man, it imagined. Hands and taste and breathing and lips and movement and whispering and skin and touch and please and strength and them.

His imagination was good. Good enough to lay a twitch in every muscle. To leave him ever so slightly tense – in that keyed up, predatory way where the blood in your veins felt like quicksilver. Good enough to make the fantasy of getting up, crossing the floor and laying his best opener on his Boss just, _just,_ tangible enough that it left him deliciously on edge.

That damn stakeout had a lot to answer for. Talk about getting him primed and ready to go. Whichever deity had set that one up was no doubt laughing his ass off at Tony DiNozzo right about now.

Maybe that was what had gotten under Gibbs' skin as well. The reason for the glances, and the restlessness. It was possible. That particular interlude was probably enough to destabilise even Yoda's zen.

Then again, Gibbs didn't seem wound particularly tight. Just – _off_.

And Tony had done this dozens of times before, and this was exactly the same, because it was him, and Gibbs. Just him and Gibbs, and it was _right_. It fit.

Just a few short weeks ago, he would have told you that he was a damn good investigator, and straight, and not thought twice about it.

But now things were different. Because apparently this had been coming for a long time. Possibly even from the moment he'd chased down a suspect and stopped him with a flying tackle, only to come face to face with greying hair, blue eyes and a scowl that put his Chief's to shame.

He hadn't seen it then, hadn't noticed since, but this Gibbs addiction had apparently been maturing long enough to qualify as vintage. And wasn't it just his luck to finally find himself in a position that might, in the right kind of light, qualify as some form of commitment, only for him not to have noticed it happening, the other party to be even more oblivious, and therefore for him to get all the heavy stuff without any of the... _benefits?_

Really, how _did_ he get himself into these situations?

A cough from the other side of the basement dragged him out of his thoughts, and he looked up straight into Gibbs' gaze - head cocked to one side, eyebrow raised.

There was something about these looks that he couldn't pin down. Something not standard issue Gibbs. Something that was hovering there in front of him, just tantalisingly out... of... reach...

Uncertainty. That was it. That was what he'd spent the past hour trying to pin down. That was why Gibbs was off. What was missing. Normal service Gibbs could tell you that Luke was Vader's father and you wouldn't dream of considering that he might be off base. But tonight's Gibbs didn't have that an underline in his eyes. He had a question.

Unfortunately he didn't have the first clue what the question was. Or the answer.

What he did know was that if Alpha male _'I'll go nuclear on your ass if you so much as blink'_ Gibbs was a turn on, then if you introduced a hint of vulnerability –

(and of course he was reading too much into it, but this was his fantasy life, and if he was going to poke a toe down the path of danger, then he might as well go the whole nine yards)

- it was a turbo charge to his libido.

Time to face facts, Tony. You have a choice. Get over there and jump him, or...

"Time for me to turn in, Boss. Need my beauty sleep, ya know?"


	14. Chapter 14

One minute, Gibbs was admiring the curve of Tony's shoulders. The next, he found himself staring at an empty step.

Beauty sleep. Like _hell._ DiNozzo was a night owl. No way was he yearning for bed at this hour. He was just getting himself out of the basement.

Which meant now he had proof. Tony might not have worked out the exact details, but he knew something was going on here.

Enough was enough. If this had got to a point where he'd rather be alone than in Gibbs' company, then things needed fixing.

Gibbs followed him. 

* * *

><p>He found Tony on the sofa, staring forlornly down at his shoe.<p>

"Problem?"

Tony's shoulders tensed, and he knew he was on the right track. After a few seconds, they relaxed again.

"You fancy helping me get this damn thing off?"

Gibbs snorted, and knelt down. "Sure thing, Cinderella."

"That was shoes on, not off."

"Yup. Was also Prince Charming, and the love of his life."

Silence. The kind made up of dozens of layers of thinking. After a moment, Gibbs found he couldn't stand it any more, pulled his nerves together and looked up. Tony was staring back at him. He found no clue as to what he was thinking.

And then the moment had lasted too long, and Gibbs knew he had to break the silence.

"Never meant to make you uncomfortable, DiNozzo." Tony opened his mouth to speak, and Gibbs found with surprise that he didn't have what it took to hear it. Instead, he carried straight on. "I'll give McGee a call and get you set up in his spare room."

"Boss?"

"You gonna want a transfer?"

"A _what_? No, no – hold up a minute. You think you could let me in on your side of this conversation?"

It took a couple of beats for the comment to sink in. A quick perusal of Tony's face confirmed that he wasn't playing dumb.

He'd hoped this kind of thing might be easier with a guy. It wasn't.

"Making you _uncomfortable_."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"No, you didn't."

"Can it Tony. You've been off ever since I collected you from autopsy."

Tony grimaced. _Gotcha_, Gibbs thought.

"See?"

"Yeah, alright. Doesn't make it your fault though. I just got – stuff to think about."

Gibbs could tell from the expression on Tony's face that he realised just how lame the excuse sounded. He raised an eyebrow, and was met with a slow flush creeping up DiNozzo's neck that said '_I'm lying'_ loud and clear.

_Way to go Gunny._

"Thought I was being subtle. Should'a known better."

"About what?"

"You gonna make me spell it out?"

"I guess so, seeing as how I really don't know what you're getting at. I mean, I know inscrutable's your thing, Boss, but you've got to at least point me in the right direction."

"Look..." Gibbs bit off his first response, stopping for a moment.

This was not going right. What had Steph said? _For someone who's proud of being a straight talking guy, you sure know how to beat around the bush when it matters._

She'd had a point.

Bite the bullet.

"I think you've been picking up on my... feelings."

"You have feelings?"

"_DiNozzo_!" The bark was instinctive, and reminded him he was still himself, despite all evidence to the contrary. It was enough to kick start the rest of the confession.

"Look – this..." He stopped, with a brief shake of the head. He was hoping it might rattle some more useful words loose. "Yes. Feelings, Tony. Feelings for you. But I never meant for that to carry over. And I promise you, it's not gonna affect your job, even if I have to step back."

"Feelings." Tony's expression... Gibbs hadn't seen one quite like it before. If pushed, he'd probably have described it as belonging to the 'I married a serial killer' family. Only with less devastation.

So far.

As reactions went, it could have been worse.

"Yeah. So. McGee?"

Tony was staring hard at him now. "You... I mean... Of all the..._You_..." His mouth hung open at the end of the word, leaving him gawping silently across the room.

Gibbs couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this embarrassed.

The look on Tony's face changed to determination, and he braced himself on the arm of the sofa.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting up."

"Be careful."

"Be _careful_? You think I'm going to hurt myself, get over here and stop me."

It was an open challenge, and he had half an idea that Tony might slug him as soon as he got within reach.

Still, he needed the help.

Sure enough, as he reached an arm out, Tony's shot out as well.

And grabbed his.

And _pulled_.


	15. Chapter 15

For once, Tony had all the advantages – namely leverage, surprise and determination. One well timed yank had Gibbs off balance, and he hit the back of the sofa with a startled grunt, before rolling down it, ending up flat on his back. Tony made sure not to waste any more time, landing on top of him about five seconds later. He was_ not _about to pass up this chance.

"Tony?"

Tony stopped mid shuffle, the pair of them nose to nose. "Gibbs."

"What are you doing?"

Tony blinked. "_Seriously?_" He knew it had been a while, but really, some things were as easy as falling off a log (and he'd fallen off a few in his time, albeit not as many as McGee). Still, on the off chance that there might be something else going on here that he'd not yet cottoned on to, he reined his libido back in and took a proper look at the man underneath him. Confusion was writ large. There might even be a hint of apprehension there, too.

"Okay. Seriously." He shuffled a little again, partly to get comfortable, and partly just because he could, and he wanted to. It was enough to prove Gibbs wasn't underplaying his _feelings._ Then again, it wasn't like Tony wasn't offering him something to think about in return. "Well. You know, there's a lot of these feelings about. You have 'em. I... well... _I_ have 'em. And as to what I'm doing – I'm acting on said feelings, because apparently we are a pair of complete idiots who could have been doing this a lot sooner."

He dipped back in towards Gibbs' mouth, pulling out again just as his target started coming to meet him. The move produced a very satisfactory growl that prowled right along the length of every nerve he had.

"On the bright side – you're a guy. I'm a guy. So that's all the talking we need to do out of the way."

This time he didn't pull out. They crashed into each other, too hard, and he snagged his lip on Gibbs tooth, and there were far too many noses involved, and he didn't care, because he had been waiting for this for years, and if it had been perfect it would have been all wrong.

After a while, he moved on to the neck, and then back to the mouth. Then an earlobe, which had Gibbs arching and grinding.

He couldn't have too much of that too soon, so he went back to the mouth. The earlobe would still be there in a few minutes.

There was a hand in his hair, and one on his ass, and they were solid, and calloused, and possessive, and just as they should be.

One of his own hands went for a wander up Gibbs chest. It enjoyed itself immensely, and sent word to the other one to come and join in.

At some point later, Gibbs broke off.

"You done this before?"

His voice had dropped so low, so gruff, that Tony thought his spine was melting, and it took a sharp tug to his hair before he worked out that there had been a question hiding in there, behind the delicious voice.

"Nope. Fun though."

Gibbs snorted quietly. "So neither of us knows what we're doing?"

It took a moment for his brain to stop enjoying the feel of full length Gibbs and process the actual meaning behind the question. He wondered if _feelings_ gave him the right to headslap Gibbs, but decided to stay on the safe side. At least until after he'd got off. It had been a _very_ long night.

"I'll have you know I know _exactly_ what I'm doing. And I'm fairly certain between us we can master enough of the basics to get through tonight. My hands still work."

"I'd noticed."

"Thank you."

* * *

><p>Some indeterminate time later, he came up for air again. "Still think I don't know what I'm doing?"<p>

"If you did, you wouldn't have stopped."

"_Right!_"

* * *

><p>It was a while before he was thinking coherently again. There was, he thought enviously, something to be said for Gibbs' general minimalism with words. It made it considerably harder to tell when the man was losing contact with his higher functions.<p>

Of course, that was nothing that couldn't be resolved with a little dedicated practice. And he could be very dedicated, given the right motivation.

In fact, practice could start just as soon as he'd recovered, and the pair of them were no longer lying on top of each other on a single sofa, puffing like steam trains and sharing the wet spot.

"Told you we'd muddle through."

"Do you ever stop talking?"

"No. It's part of my charm."

"Really? Bet I can do something about that."

* * *

><p>Much later, after a short nap, relocation to the bedroom, and further investigation of the general layout of Gibbs' erogenous zones, conversation reappeared.<p>

"You're taking tomorrow off."

"What? Why? Ducky said I was fine for desk duty."

"I know."

"Well then."

"There's a desk here. I'll get Abby to set you up, first thing."

"Oh, come on!"

"Fine. Come into the office and work if you want. You'll be dong research. Thought you might prefer to do it here."

"Research?"

"Background on our perps. Full work up. Need to know if there are any other weak spots. Everything, no matter how irrelevant it seems." Gibbs stared at him hard, with surprisingly innocent looking eyes. "_Research_."

"...Oh. _Research_."

"That's it. Knew you were smart."

Tony huffed in mock annoyance. "One of us should be." The headslap had no energy either, Gibbs' hand drifting to a halt on his scalp, rubbing gently. Tony took the time to enjoy the sensation, before moving back towards the point. "Sure thing. I'm your man! And you're right, I probably would get more done here, anyway. Better for my recovery, too. That knee really hurts, you know."

"Best rest it then."

"If you insist. I probably shouldn't try and head for the guest room. Don't want to overtax it."

"Good point. Stay here. I'll do the same. That way if you need help, I'm right on hand."

"Excellent idea. As it happens, there is something I could use a little help with..."


End file.
